


A Road of Flowers

by DoreyG



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Conflicted emotions and stuff, Hotel!Sex, M/M, Mentions of disapproving family, Modern AU, Prostitution/sex work, Sort of Polyamory, Unconventional relationships that work despite flailing, rentboy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man looks glorious like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Road of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Prostitution/Sex Work" square of my Kink_Bingo. And I must say that searching for a quote to put in the title gave me several bouts of rage over certain puranitical views on the sex work industry. In the end the quote I chose was a bastardisation of “There is no road of flowers leading to glory” by Jean de La Fontaine because of reasons that'd make this note longer than it already is/needs to be.
> 
> ...And, er, that is the end of feels half hour with Dorey! (It is late and I am ranting, oops.)

The man looks glorious like this, with his dark hair clouded around his face and a wide smirk curving his tempting lips. Looks _natural_ like this, in fact, like he was _made_ to be naked and in a posh bed and charging by the hour.

…But, then, that is Charlie Stuart. Rentboy extraordinaire.

He’s not sure when this became a regular thing, really. Months ago. Possibly _years_ ago. He knows when it _started_ of course, three years ago last Monday when he picked up a shuddering coil of long legs and flawless skin from a sidewalk and was surprised when those long legs ended up wrapped around his waist just a few hours later, but when it continued is the issue – an impossible issue, a thorny issue, one that he doesn’t quite want to _think_ about-

One that Charlie doesn’t quite want to think about either, judging by the slow roll of his hips and the pleading moan that drifts softly out of his mouth.

They’re in a hotel room, because his home is being cleaned and is far too far away anyway. Charlie is riding him on the bed: swift straddle having turned seamlessly into steady thrusting before he could even blink. They’re both naked, he’s pretty sure that he didn’t blink during the stripping process either.

…He’s pretty sure that he hasn’t blinked throughout his entire acquaintance with Charlie.

But that’s understandable, really, because he often feels like if he doesn’t keep an eye on Charlie the man will just _disappear_ Pop back into nothing. Melt into the shadows until his black hair merged and his dark eyes blinked shut and even his wonderfully pale skin was absolutely covered.

And he doesn’t want that. He-

Charlie rocks on top of him again: slow, torturous. He allows his head to fall back into the pillows, his throat to work around a groan. Charlie only smiles at him, rakes well tended nails across his chest in a way that ( _always_ ) makes him arch and gasp and roll his hips just that little bit _deeper_.

For they know each other by now.

Know each others’ reaction times. Soft spots, favourite positions, favourite ways to be kissed, schedules, ticklish spots, preferred breakfasts, café preferences…

Know each other.

Charlie is starting to sweat, just slightly (which is a good thing, because he’s too skinny to waste much of _anything_ ): a glisten over his lean stomach, a faint sheen on his upper lip. He leans back a little, scratches those well kept nails over his stomach to keep some sort of balance – a balance that he desperately needs judging by that slightly crazy light in his eyes.

…They also know how to take each other apart.

For, despite the fact that _Charlie_ is the prostitute and _Charlie_ is the one with experience beyond a few meaningless fumbles in university, they’ve both become adept at unraveling each other. For they do truly know each other, know each other intimately, know each other in _every_ way possible.

…He wonders what his mother would think.

…Decides that it is most certainly _not_ a topic for now as Charlie steadily picks up his pace, throws his head back to expose his long throat and pants his desire to the ceiling.

But still-

_Still_ -

He never thought that he’d fall in love with a rentboy. A prostitute. A man. _Charlie_. He always thought that he’d get over such desires, meet a nice woman who wanted children and settle down to the boring life of drudgery that was expected of him. No dreams. No excitement. No _nothing_ except the grindstone and a perfectly acceptable life waiting for him once he got home.

…Even after he met Charlie the first time.

Even after he _slept_ with Charlie for the first few times.

Even then. And even now he’s still not quite sure if this isn’t a dream. A fantasy. A whirling thing that he’ll wake up from at any moment. For this never should’ve happened to a man like him. He shouldn’t be feeling such desire (burning hot, practically setting his blood aflame), such passion (a dizzying rush, making him light headed and breathy and so ready to collapse), such _love_ (with every beat of his heart, every pleasure-pained throb) every time he looks upon his Charlie’s face.

His Charlie’s groaning face. The pace nearing _punishing_ by now: both their cocks impossibly hard as Charlie tilts forwards to grip his shoulders and _whine_ hotly against his mouth.

…With his mouth.

That mouth that he loves.

That _whore’s_ mouth, too.

For that’s another thing that never should’ve happened to a man like him. He shouldn’t be feeling such desire, such passion, such _love_ for a _whore_. A man that sells himself to others every night. A man that professes his love, but then goes off and lets his body be used by anybody that flashes a crinkled fifty. A man that has admitted to his inability to remain loyal, that has clearly (as clear as flame, as clear as day, as clear as _anything_ ) stated that he wishes to love every single person that he possibly can with every part of his body available-

…He wonders what his mother would think, again.

_Dismisses_ it, again, as Charlie starts _clenching_ around his cock. Starts gently biting at his lips. Starts moaning like the wanton creature he is and always shall be. A purpose in mind as he rocks and sways and growls and- _and_ -

Loves him.

For Charlie truly does love him, as he makes sure that he comes bucking and moaning before following over himself – slumping down into his chest with a loud cry that sounds half like a laugh, something joyful and bubbling and _thrilled_ to be in his very presence.

… _Truly_ does love him, no matter how many others have used his body in such a way.

“Good?”

“Astounding.”

And, no, he’s not sure when this became a regular thing. Is only entirely sure of how it started: three years ago last Monday, in a car, with a half terrified young man slowly easing in front of him until his brilliant eyes and brilliant teeth and brilliant _heart_ (as soppy as that sounds) showed so very clearly. 

…And so he’s pretty sure, almost _entirely_ sure deep down in his bones (despite his worries, despite his mother, despite how little he deserves it), that he never _ever_ wants this to end.

The man looks glorious like this, curled into his chest and sweetly drifting off to sleep.


End file.
